


Find Peace In This

by th_esaurus



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: And despite all this not particularly explicit, Asphyxiation, Collars, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:17:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He owns enough land that he lets the dogs run free, no need for leashes when there's no-one in the neighbourhood for three square miles. But he's got a collar or two lying around for trips to the vet and time-outs. He keeps his drawers neat, and finds one nestled at the back, bottom left. It's pretty plain; black and brown, no adornments. Will turns it over in his hands and frowns. Safety catch instead of a buckle. Practical, if not preferable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Find Peace In This

Will Graham has nightmares, and instead of prescribing him something for insomnia, Hannibal buckles a belt around his neck while he's sleeping. Will wakes up with it tight-but-not-pressing at his throat in the morning, alone in bed, to the sounds of Hannibal making breakfast.

 

It sounds intricate. It always does.

 

Will feels he should be angry. There is anger somewhere in his chest, hibernating, but mostly now he just feels calm. The leather is smooth, certainly not cheap, and the cold buckle is arranged right against his Adam's apple, straining every time he breathes deep.

 

He realizes he slept through the night. At least, he woke up once, grabbed for Hannibal, mouthed at his bare shoulder without words or consciousness, and let himself be soothed back into sleep. It wasn't fitful further, as it turned out.

 

He slept okay and woke up with a belt around his neck.

 

Hannibal comes into the room sideways, pushing the door with his elbow, holding a matte silver tray between his hands. His eyes – which never quite open fully – flick from Will's throat to his navel and back up again. What Will's stomach has to do with anything, he doesn't care to know. Maybe Hannibal was looking lower. Maybe.

 

"Forgive my impertinence," is all Hannibal says, "I wanted to see if it would calm you."

 

"It did," Will says, and talking is slightly harder than breathing, though he surmises he could tie the belt another notch, if he wanted to. If someone wanted to. Hannibal must have worked the leather while he was asleep. "But that doesn't make it okay."

 

"Quite correct," Hannibal demurs, and lays the tray in Will's lap, and doesn't loosen the belt. Not at all.

 

*

 

Will stays only a few nights a week at Hannibal's place, partly out of need for familiar spaces, and partly out of loyalty to his pack.

 

He owns enough land that he lets the dogs run free, no need for leashes when there's no-one in the neighbourhood for three square miles. But he's got a collar or two lying around for trips to the vet and time-outs. He keeps his drawers neat, and finds one nestled at the back, bottom left. It's pretty plain; black and brown, no adornments. Will turns it over in his hands and frowns. Safety catch instead of a buckle. Practical, if not preferable. 

 

He leaves it on the arm of his easy chair, and goes to make dinner.

 

Will's evenings are as gentle as he can make them these days: fly tying and a good book. He never calls Hannibal, when they're apart, except to discuss cases. Will could never be described by previous lovers as clingy, and it might in part have been why they never stuck around either. Hannibal has no such lack of confidence in Will's intentions nor, Will suspects, his own allure. 

 

They haven't really discussed it. Things just--happen. Besides accepting Jack Crawford's dubious job offer, it's probably the most spontaneous thing Will has ever fallen into.

 

He settles in to sleep late. Brushes his teeth, downs a glass of water; hesitates before he picks the collar up and takes it to bed with him.

 

Will tilts up his chin and clips the collar round his neck with as much dignity as he can muster. 

 

*

 

Will sleeps. He dreams, too. But they're hazy, not sharp and perhaps not hurtful, and he drifts back into darkness after.

 

*

 

He wakes up sweaty and breathless and for a moment the feeling is so familiar he almost panics. His hands fly to his neck in case someone is strangling him - he'll look back at the thought later and call himself stupid - but no, it's just the collar, just the collar, and he isn't breaking down; he's hard. He tugs at the collar and it comes off easily, not designed for violent handling, and clambers out of bed, stripping as he lumbers towards the bathroom. Jesus he feels hot, his neck and dick both almost burning, and he scrabbles at the taps, thumps the shower into life, cool.

 

Will thinks about washing first, decides it'd be pointless, and wraps his fist around his dick, hisses, pumps it.

 

It feels good for a little while. Will is decided not undersexed at this strange stage in his life, but it still feels good, familiar, methodical. But after a few minutes, the water beating down on his shoulders feels more chill than calming, and his wrist aches from being so much asked of so early in the morning, and the low pressure in his stomach feels more like hunger than anything raw and earthy.

 

He slows his stroke, eases off. Takes a few deep breaths, and turns the heat up on the water. Will doesn't finish himself off; just finishes his shower. Dries, dresses.

 

He picks up the collar from where he'd thrown it on the floor, before he leaves. Thinks about putting it back in its drawer, and then, instead, puts it in his overnight bag.

 

He's got an appointment with Hannibal tonight.

 

*

 

Hannibal eyes the collar with some disdain. He hadn't made Will hand it to him, but it was placed on the edge of his desk for examination.

 

"You might have been onto something," Will admits grudgingly. "My mind was—surprisingly calm last night."

 

"Pain is a surprisingly effective distraction from itself," Hannibal says, circling the desk slowly. "I assumed your impulses would be more interested in fending off a perceived threat than creating one in your mind." His hand hovers over the collar. "May I?"

 

Will looks, then away, then back. He nods.

 

Hannibal picks it up with an unnecessary delicacy, for a dog collar. He doesn't examine it further, but strides around to the back of Will's chair, and – without asking this time – presses two fingers to the back of Will's head to tip it forward. He pulls a little at Will's shirt, baring his neck fully, and parts the collar around it like an embrace. The clasp makes a plastic clink as it settles into place, nothing so satisfying as the growl of leather and metal, and Hannibal spends quite some time adjusting the straps until it fits Will's neck just snugly.

 

"Are you done? I don't think there's much chance of nightmares striking here," Will murmurs.

 

"Hush," Hannibal says sharply; and he presses two fingers down between the collar and Will's skin.

 

For a moment, it pulls everything taut. Will half chokes mid-breath and, like the past two nights, he forgets everything. Hannibal pushes further, down to the knuckle, and the pressure becomes urgent, Will's pulse focused in his throat like an alarm. Hannibal might hum pleasantly, though if he does, Will doesn't register it. All he can make sense of is his own heartbeat, the strap around his neck, and the heat curling down towards his cock.

 

The collar's buckle snaps open. Exactly like it's meant to. Will breathes in sharply through his nose, and the whole world comes rushing back.

 

"It will do as a temporary solution," Hannibal says primly, his voice sounding slightly distant still. "But we will have to find something sturdier. You can be an excessively rough sleeper."

 

As though the thought has just occurred to him, and though they have a good half hour left of their session, Hannibal asks mildly, "I assume you're staying tonight?"

 

Will, breathless, just nods.

 

*

 

He doesn't present it to Will, but there's still a certain ceremony in the way he has it couriered out to Wolf Trap. There's a hand-written note inside the package on crisp, cream paper, that simply says, _You will find this hardier._

 

The curious thing is, it's still a dog collar. Perhaps it was most practical. Will had briefly looked online, closed his laptop, cringing. It's thick, made for the bigger breeds, and bespoke – two extra notches at least wrought into the leather. Not black, but a very rich walnut, stitching the colour of almonds.

 

One of the dogs sniffs at it curiously, and Will bats her back, a touch too harsh; pets her muzzle in apology.

 

He tries it out that night. It feels a little stiff against his skin, so he wears it from just before sundown to loosen it up. Makes dinner in his collar; lets the dogs out for a run, in his collar.

 

If he dreams, it's in soft focus, gentle things in pastel colours. Dreams of old furniture and the smell of leaves and long-gone fishing trips; things he has forgotten how to dream about. Dreams of people who are neither dead nor dying.

 

He's come, when he wakes up, his cock already soft and his bedsheets clammy. His palm is sticky with it too, and he washes his hands before he takes off the collar. Moves slowly, as though sated, as though entranced.

 

Will carefully wraps the collar back in its packaging, after breakfast, and makes do with his cheap substitute for the next two nights.

 

*

 

Evenings at Hannibal's are civilized affairs. Will brings whatever he's reading from home and they sit in armchairs in front of the hearth, cradling wine, talking softly but not frequently. Will's darker thoughts swim on the edge of his consciousness and when they ebb too close to the surface, he clambers out of his chair inelegantly and takes Hannibal's jaw between his hands, and kisses him.

 

"—Sorry," he mutters, embarrassed.

 

"My dear Will," Hannibal soothes, "I think I would have taken issue by this point, if I had any to take."

 

Hannibal brings the remainder of his Languedoc up to the bedroom.

 

It's become habitual that Hannibal belts Will's collar around his neck before bed. He stands with it in his hands as Hannibal goes through his evening ablutions, waiting for Hannibal to come over, tap the bottom of his chin up, and fix the collar in place. And then they sleep. Just that, usually.

 

Hannibal prefers his sex before dinner, so they can focus on the meal and not unwieldy pheromones. No one could call him a man without priorities.

 

He makes Will wait a little longer, tonight. Takes his time. Does not change into his sleepwear, and instead approaches Will naked. Will feels stupid, half dressed, and puts the collar between his teeth to hold it while he strips off his tee and boxers.

 

Hannibal holds out his palm and unthinkingly, Will just loosens his jaw, lets the collar drop into his open hand. He almost winces, stutters another apology and stares at his wet bite-marks on the pricey leather.

 

"Turn around, please," Hannibal says evenly.

 

Will can't see his hands, but he can feel Hannibal reach the one notch more used than all the rest, the prong just brushing the cusp of it. And then Hannibal goes one further, and that's where he buckles it.

 

Neither of them comment on it. Will doesn't feel it's his place.

 

They keep the light on until Hannibal has finished his wine, Will spooned up against his warm back under the duvet. And then they sleep, and Will has no nightmares.

 

Will Graham does not have nightmares.


End file.
